To the Writer Vo Hong
By Phan Tan Hai
Leaving the quiet countryside for the city,
he remembered the grass wet with night dew,
remembered sunlight on ripened rice fields,
remembered sutra-chanting drifting softly from temples.
He wrote onto paper the soul of ancient towers,
lifting his brush with a sorrowful ink.
Loneliness seemed to gather and settle—
he asked where the true spring source might be found.
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